


make my bed

by bratwiththeglasses



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017)
Genre: M/M, morning after au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:02:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25872556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bratwiththeglasses/pseuds/bratwiththeglasses
Summary: a morning after au, just a little drabble.
Relationships: Oliver/Elio Perlman
Comments: 35
Kudos: 100





	make my bed

**Author's Note:**

> this is a gift/prompt request for tumblr user: amore-e-psiche  
> enjoy!
> 
> -cpx

The first thing Elio comes to realize when he wakes up is that there’s someone else in bed with him.

He keeps his eyes closed, his stomach grinding as he tries to sort out what is reality from the hazy memories of the night before, his brain loathe to digest.

His mouth still tastes of cigarettes and cheap beer. A soft, slow inhale proves to him that the rest of his body does as well, his pores desperate to extricate whatever booze wasn’t metabolized by his liver. There is a faint heat coming from beside him that is obviously another person, a slow movement that feels like breathing. They must still be asleep.

Elio focuses his cloudy thoughts to listen to the sound, suddenly remembering a gruff voice from the night before. Low. Deep. Male.

The previous night’s events roll like a film in reverse.

Elio remembers the sex. All of it. Can still feel the sweat smeared all over his body, among other things.

Blurry images of dancing on the sidewalk, spilling beer along the way and laughing flash through his mind. He sees a set of teeth, perfectly white, mouth opened wide. He can hear a strong laugh, the echo of it making his lips tick into a grin.

There’s a half-memory of sharing greasy fries, wiping ketchup away with his thumb. The taste of salt and vinegar.

Cigarette after cigarette, chased by pint after pint.

Dancing. Embarrassment. There’s an ache of longing still lingering in his gut, but when Elio strains his fuzzy brain to remember why, he falls short.

The rays from the morning sun that fall through the open window are nice until they rise higher, the warmth transitioning into heat, making Elio even more sweaty and uncomfortable. It seems he isn’t the only one.

A quiet grumble from the pillow next to him asks, “What time is it?”

Elio’s eyes finally flutter open. He blinks to clear away the brightness of the morning, the hangover that’s slathered itself over every function in his body. He forces himself to look to his left, his chin bumping against his own bare shoulder.

Blue eyes greet him, a handsome smile, tanned skin and eyelashes so pretty they should belong to a woman. Elio feels jealous and aroused. No wonder he’d taken this man home.

“How should I know? I’ve been asleep.”

The man laughs, as if he doesn’t believe him. And he shouldn’t but Elio doesn’t appreciate the blatant, easy mistrust. “Well, do you have any coffee? Water, even. I’m so thirsty I can barely swallow.”

Elio doesn’t get a chance to reply. Instead, he watches in consternation as the man -- fully naked -- pulls himself up out of the bed and helps himself to Elio’s small kitchenette.

Elio’s modest studio looks like it can barely contain all of him; broad shoulders and long legs, so much skin and skin and skin. Elio sits up, pulling the sheet up over his body and tucking the material under his armpits. The man bends over his kitchen sink, no apparent shame that his ass is on display, his testicles and cock hanging sweetly between his thighs, while he splashes his face with water.

The man helps himself to a glass from the tap, chugging it down before refilling it. He walks it back over to the bed and hands it to Elio who accepts it with a frown.

“Do you want me to make you breakfast?”

Elio looks up, eyes wide. “You’re staying for breakfast.” It’d be a waste of time to correct his tone. It isn’t a question and the man doesn’t bother responding with anything more than a lift to his light toned eyebrows.

Relief floods every vein in Elio’s body when the blond finally pulls on a shirt and a pair of boxer briefs. The small apartment is quiet except for the birds outside the window, cars that are starting to fill in the streets below. Occasionally a voice from somewhere outside carries in, filling the empty space in the silence between them.

Elio dresses himself under the sheet, uncertain why he feels such ignominy toward the man. It definitely wasn’t there last night. Before he climbs out of bed, Elio allows himself a minute to close his eyes and remember.

Large hands that spread easily over his ribs, lips soft and assertive, pulling Elio’s cock into them, swallowing his come more than once. Elio remembers the sting of being stretched open, the burn as he lifted himself up then down -- had they used lube? A condom? He reminds himself to worry about it later.

Elio takes a deep breath and pulls apart each drunken memory of the night before until he finally recalls the one that he needs. He hears his own breathing in his head, feels the echo of the heat coiled in his lower abdomen. Elio’s cock grows hard against remembering his orgasm, the name that had fallen from his own mouth just hours ago.

Oliver.

He has to wait another minute before he can climb out of bed, then he seats himself at the small table that’s pressed into the corner of the room near the kitchenette.

Oliver makes them fried eggs and toasts the last two end pieces of bread that Elio had left in the cupboard. It’s stale and slightly burnt, slathered in butter.

“Thank you, you didn’t have to do this,” Elio finally speaks after half their plates are clear. Oliver laughs that same laugh again to which Elio throws another disparaging look at. The blue eyes across the small table don’t falter. When Elio shifts, his bare feet meet Oliver’s and when he moves to pull away, Oliver shifts and layers his foot over Elio’s to trap him there.

“I did this because last night you asked me to.”

Elio tries -- and fails, probably-- not to look scandalized. “Did I?” He won’t allow himself to revisit last night's memories while sitting so close to Oliver. He’ll just want him all over again and Elio hasn’t decided if that’s an appropriate response just yet. “Tell me what I said.”

Oliver grins, happy to oblige it seems. He takes their plates, without getting up he stretches and sets them on the counter in the kitchenette. He moves his chair so he’s next to Elio, leaning over to rest his elbows on his knees.

Elio emboldens himself, holding Oliver’s gaze. They’re on even eye level and Elio can see the very light, barely there freckles that have spattered themselves under Oliver’s eyes from too much time in the sun. He wants to kiss them, so he does.

When he pulls back, Oliver’s smile looks like what Elio imagines every soft, happy morning should look like; lazy lips that would be sweet to the taste if he were to lean forward and connect.

“You said to me, ‘If I wake up in the morning and ask you to leave,’” Oliver stops speaking, lifts a hand to line his fingers from Elio’s cheekbone to his jaw. He leans forward and whispers into Elio’s ears, “‘Just make me breakfast and promise me that you’ll stay.’”

-


End file.
